


They're Not Coming Back, Bud

by Parksborn



Category: Spider-Man (Comicverse), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Actually no it is a headcanon, look out it's full of headcanons, whoops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-01
Updated: 2013-07-01
Packaged: 2017-12-16 18:11:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/865059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Parksborn/pseuds/Parksborn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>But you see, any conversation that opens with the words, “We need to talk,” never ends well. It ends in a whole lot of heartbreak, more often than not. And so—even for as young as I was, even for as unsuspecting as I had been—I knew that those words could not signify anything good coming my way any time soon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	They're Not Coming Back, Bud

**Author's Note:**

> All mistakes are my own. As it says in the tags, this is basically a headcanon.

Sometimes, I get people who are surprised when I say that I'm an orphan. Sometimes, even, they have to backtrack, afraid that they'd stepped on rough territory, or irritated an old wound.

Sometimes, it's, “I'm sorry. I didn't know.” And others, it's, “You always seemed so well-adjusted.”

I was young when it happened. Hadn't even hit those fabled double digits that were supposed to signify a “man.” Mom and Dad, they... Something happened. They had to leave. So, I was dropped off with my aunt and uncle for the time being. I didn't mind much. I went to the same school, watched the same Saturday morning cartoons. Not a lot had really changed.

Until one day, I was pulled out of class. I was sat down in a small, very dull room with the school counselor, Aunt May, and Uncle Ben. 

“Pete, we, uhh. We need to talk,” Uncle Ben had said, shifting in his seat. I looked to Aunt May, and she had been crying. She still had tears in her eyes. And Uncle Ben was barely holding it together.

But you see, any conversation that opens with the words, “We need to talk,” never ends well. It ends in a whole lot of heartbreak, more often than not. And so—even for as young as I was, even for as unsuspecting as I had been—I knew that those words could not signify anything good coming my way any time soon. 

I shifted in my seat. Nobody said anything, and the clock above the door ticked louder than I had ever imagined. 

“It's about your mother and father, Peter,” the school counselor finally said, eyes wide and sweet and sympathetic. 

“Are they back?” I asked, hope leaking uselessly into the leaded dread that filled my stomach.

No. Of course they weren't. I wouldn't have been pulled from class. That lady and Aunt May and Uncle Ben and I wouldn't have been in that room. Aunt May wouldn't have been so close to tears. Uncle Ben wouldn't have gotten out of his chair, wouldn't have knelt beside me as I sat in mine, wouldn't have taken my hands and squeezed them tight.

He wouldn't have whispered, “They're not coming back, bud.”


End file.
